Immigration Story
My grandmother Kamala, is a woman of true respect. She grew up in the Kirthabra moutains, bordering Karachi and proclaiming it the most beautiful place in the world that “overlooked the heavens”. She grew as people would call “blue blooded”, ridiculously rich but far from conceited. Her family consisted complete vegetarians- never eating meat or eggs as if to preserve what bodies are given. She had five brothers and she was the eldest child. My grandfather Bhagwan was similar, yet completely different. He grew up eating everything that moved- except for beef of course because cows are to Indians as Jesus is to Christians. He grew up with five sisters, in the heart of Karachi in a huge apartment on top of hill. Their family business was in owning apartments and because there were so many people paying rent to them, Bhagwan was told that he would never have to work another day in his life. On his 16th birthday, his father gave him a building, setting his up for even more prosperity in life. If there’s one thing in my family that I’ve noticed it’s that irony seems to follow us. Oddly enough, it was only 16 years that my grandparents would have to remember their lush lifestyles because of the simple reason that they are Hindu. It was a muggy, rainy night towards the end of monsoons when the Muslims came. At the time Gandhi had achieved the separation of Britain rule over India through non-violence, and India was ecstatic. But what they didn’t know, was that while the country had just become united, they were about to split again. Jinnah, a Muslim political activist had been arguing with Hindus about splitting India into two- one part for Muslims and the other for Hindus. The majority of Hindus agreed that dividing India wouldn’t be necessary, but Jinnah was persistent. On August 15, 1947 a couple of Hindu activists (Gandhi being one of them) gave in and India was no longer united. For a man that is the embodiment of peace, it is hard to understand why Gandhi